Sidelines
by LilliesForGrace
Summary: Annie Cresta is living a lie. Ever since she witnessed her District partner's death in the 70th Hunger Games, Panem thinks she's gone mad. But she hasn't, and only one boy sees that  -Finnick Odair. But with the Quarter Quell looming, will she lose him?
1. Chapter 1

The worst thing I did was hide. I have no idea what kind of idiotic mental lapse made me do it, but for some strange, idiotic reason I chose to melt into the shadows and watch the bloodshed. Then again, I'm not exactly known for being logical. The world knows me as the crazy victor from District 4. The one who stood by and watched as her partner was beheaded.

The coward.

And to be totally honest, that's how I view myself. It's the reason I'm like this – totally and completely off-the-rails crazy.

I'm not saying I'd go back into the arena. Never again. I just wish I'd done things differently. If I'd used those stupid blow darts, maybe Ryan would've won. He'd be more of a victor than I am. I can picture him - parading around the Districts, everyone cheering in admiration, coal black hair waving in the wind and deep brown eyes sparkling with enjoyment. He'd have been in his pure element. He would've done amazing things with his power, while I'm pouring it down the drain as the crack in my psyche gets bigger and wider every waking moment.

As the sunlight streams through the window of my cottage in the Victor's Village, the same thoughts run through my head, the same every single morning. I feel like I'm living a lie. Panem doesn't know me as who I truly am – a scared, vulnerable little girl. They insist I 'need time to forget'. I'll never forget. How could I? At the moment the sword met his neck, his eyes landed on me. He spotted the flash of brown hair and green eyes as I dove behind the rock to save myself. His last sight was me abandoning him.

I reluctantly crawl out of my bed and trudge to my dresser. I pull out a pale blue dress, the same one I wore for my reaping five years ago. It's lightweight and breezy, perfect for keeping up my 'good girl' image. Portia still calls me occasionally to remind me that even though I'm out of the arena, the Capitol cherish their victors and each individual personality. I had to keep it up, or God knows what they'd do to me. Again, back to the 'living a lie' cliché. Sometimes I forget who I am, and that scares me more than insanity.

As I exit the room to get something to eat, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. A swish of coal black hair, a sparkle of emerald green eyes. People tell me I'm pretty. 'Just like her mother, she is,' was the usual comment. That, and as I'd heard people in the Square mutter, 'a tortured beauty'. I stop, backtrack and see my reflection gazing back at me, eyes big and inquisitive. I tilt my head, and the girl in the mirror copies. I drink in every detail of myself – pale, porcelain skin, waved ebony hair, blushing cheeks and thin waist. Just one glance and you'd know I was from District 4, I look the same as everyone else, and yet I'm looked at like a goddess. With an exasperated sigh, I turn away from the girl in the glass.

I walk out onto my porch and admire the sunrise – golds, pinks and bronzes illuminating the ocean, dancing around on the surface and playing on the crest of the waves. Taking in a deep breath of sea air, I glance around to see if any of my neighbours were awake yet. Mags' house was empty of any signs of life, so I assumed she was still asleep. That only left Finnick. As my eyes reached his sky-blue deck, a strong pair of arms snatched my waist and threw me up into the air. With a scream, I plummeted back to Earth, landing in the strong, tanned arms of Finnick Odair. With a wink, he set me down and playfully bowed.

"Good morning, m'lady. How may I be of service?" he asks in a boyish manner.

"Really, Finnick? Grow up and stop doing that – you'll drop me one day!" I muster every muscle in my face into an annoyed frown, but Finnick's deep blue eyes bore right though me and I end up cracking a smile.

"See? You can't stay mad at me, Cresta," he says teasingly. I wish he was easier to disagree with. But he was my mentor, and he practically saved my life. I was a little girl, just turned fourteen, no combat experience whatsoever and no clue what was going on. If it wasn't for Finnick, I'd never have managed. He taught me how to look at the people of the Capitol without bursting into fits of giggles at their stupid 'fashion' sense, he taught me how to make Caesar Flickerman (and the entire country of Panem) want to worship me as their nation's sweetheart, but most importantly he taught me how to survive in the arena. Although I was at an advantage with the fact that around 60% of it was water, I hadn't had much experience in foraging for food on a beach or desert. He showed me how to tap the water from cacti, how to gut and cook a Jabberjay and how to tilt the odds into my favour, just as that ditzy announcer Effie Trinket tells us every year. I owe everything I have to Finnick Odair.

We decide to take a morning stroll on the Village's private beach; probably the best part about living in District 4 is that no one's ever far from water or the ocean. And that's how we like it.

"So, Cresta," he's forced to shout over the crashing waves, "do you want to come over to my house tonight to watch the Quarter Quell announcement?"

Is that tonight? I'd completely forgotten about the mandatory viewing – that could've been nasty. Missing mandatory viewing is a big deal to our Peacekeepers. Although, they'd probably just think I'd had another 'insanity turn'.

"Yeah, I'd love to!" I giggle. I know for a fact almost every girl and woman in Panem would love to be in my position – rubbing shoulders with the totally gorgeous Finnick Odair! The thing is, he's never been that to me. He's just been…Finnick.

We walk for a while until the sun comes up and the sight of bustling fisherman appear on the beach some metres away from us. We turn back towards the village and walk in silence. I hear Finnick's breath increasing slowly, and I can tell he's nervous.

"What are you thinking about?"

He stops walking and stares at the sand. I notice there's a small, blue crab playing by his feet, scurrying back and forth without a care in the world.

"What do you think the Quarter Quell will be this year?" he says quickly, snapping his head up and looking me straight in the eye. I feel a jolt of electricity – his eyes can do that to you if the light hits them just right. It's magical, how those orbs of blue can make you feel alive with a fire you didn't know you had. They're inspiring.

"There's no way to know," I mutter in a defeated tone, "The Capitol are sick minded people – it could be anything."

He sighs, then carries on walking.

"That's what I was afraid of."

We walk in silence, hand in hand, for the rest of the way. Not speaking, but still understanding.


	2. Chapter 2

As evening fell, my anticipation of the Quarter Quell announcement began to build. As I'd said to Finnick – the possibilities were endless. My guess was they'd either take all boys or all girls from the Districts, or make adults compete. It would be interesting to see what could happen with the adults – would they sit and refuse the bloodshed? Protest? I'd love to see the faces of the Gamemakers if that happened. They'd probably just stir them up with something, like an earthquake.

Or a flood…

I hop into my shower and turn in on full blast, hoping the drumming water can drown my thoughts, but the sound of rushing water only engraves the memories deeper into my mind. I hurriedly throw on a blouse and a pair of jeans, pulled on my sneakers and run over to Finnick's house, my hair billowing in the evening breeze. I don't bother to knock – he never knocks when visiting me.

As I enter the living room, I see Finnick has laid out a table of snacks in the centre of the room – small bite size chunks of fish speared with cocktail sticks, tiny pieces of hard candy smashed up into smithereens, cheese and crackers and strawberries submerged in sugar. All my favourites. It amazed me, how much he knew about me, when we're so different. Him, strong, confident and adored and me, quiet, enclosed and misunderstood.

Don't forget delusional. I'm never allowed to forget that.

At that moment, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and I spun around to see Finnick in the doorway holding two glasses of what looked like mango juice. Winking, he held one out to me and I roll my eyes at his joking cockiness. Yet another difference. We both collapse on the foam-white sofa as the huge television rises from the wooden floor. We begin to chat and make jokes about Caesar Flickerman's new powder-puff lilac hair and President Snow's mannerisms, and only go quiet when the audience stands as Snow takes the stage to announce the Quarter Quell. We hold our breath as the box is brought out, and the president's booming voice announces:

"On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

That's all I have to hear. I sit in shock for several seconds as anger overrides my system. I hear Finnick trying to say something to me but rage only leaves a humming in my ears. I storm out of the living room, slamming the door as I run out into the cold night. The sky is illuminated with stars I don't notice as I sprint to the beach and fling myself full force into the waves. I swim out about 500 metres before I look back. Finnick is fast approaching, screaming something at me. Ignoring him, I plunge myself into the icy water, not bothering to pause for air. Why? I'm just going to die anyway. As I claw at the water with my bare hands, swimming further and further beneath the surface, I feel myself slipping into unconsciousness. This is a good way to die. My way. One final act of insanity for them to remember me by. I feel my vision darkening, but I still thrash at the water, determined to fill my lungs with the blissful salt of the ocean. The current stings my eyes and my ears bleed with the pain of the pressure, and I can feel the vibrations of waves rippling behind me and I know Finnick is hot on my tail. However, I've always been able to 'swim like a salmon in spring time', as my mother used to tell me, and I quickly paddle away and duck into a reef. As the shadow of the swimmer passes by, I begin to feel nauseous and weak; this never happens when I'm swimming. Something is seriously wrong, and as I look down dreamily, the last sight I remember is the deep gash on my shin and the poisonous sea urchin's spindly thorn sinking deep into my leg, as the world turns black.


	3. Chapter 3

Opening my eyes, the first things to greet me are swimming fireworks of light – then I remember the venom from the sea urchin. Something tells me the effects haven't fully worn off yet. As the fireworks slowly die down, I see I'm lying in my bed at home, soaked through and shivering. As I try to sit up, I discover my body is paralysed – this is when I start to surrender to panic. Finally, I see that the sheets all around me are drenched with blood, and something inside of me snaps. I lift up my throat and, summoning every tiny wisp of oxygen in my lungs, let out a shattering scream that rang through the house. Beginning to hyperventilate, I hear footsteps hammering up the wooden stairs. There's someone in my house and I just told it where I was. I'm going to die. I'm surely going to die right here, in blood-soaked bedclothes and the shame of attempted suicide. Of course! My brain slowly jittered awake – the Quarter Quell announcement, trying to kill myself before the Capitol does, Finnick – Finnick! He was the one coming up the stairs! He saved me when the urchin stabbed me – I owe everything to Finnick Odair.

Just then, the door swung open, and as I was about to hurl my thanks and apologies at Finnick a different face greeted me. Not tousled, blonde hair but thin, grey locks.

"Mags?" I ask, confused, "What are you doing here? What happened? How did-"

"Shhh, lovie," she coos as she strokes my hair, "You need your rest. Although, you're awake now, and I guess you want answers."

Mags can be quite hard to understand if you don't know her language – she lost her teeth several years ago and has a hard time trying to talk with just her gums. It just takes a bit of time to get used to.

"The truth is, I ran out as well when I heard about the Quarter Quell, ready to do just what you did – die in a way that I'd be happy, in my own way, not the Capitol's. But there you were. Lovie, you're – what, seventeen?"

I nod slowly, as I'm not sure of the effects the venom had on my neck.

"That's far too young to be even THINKING about doing something so terrible!" Mags scolds, giving me a light slap on the arm.

I swallow quietly, trying to muster the strength to answer her.

"B-but what about…" I trail off, but she nods understandingly.

"I've done many, many things in my time, Annie. I've won the biggest game in Panem, loved and lost and loved again, watched my loved ones die around me. The truth is…" she sighs, and I can tell she's playing memories over in her head fondly. "You and Finnick are all I know. I haven't ventured outside the Village since the 65th Games. Ten years, Annie. You know why?"

I shrug, and it brings a new stab of pain to my upper body. I recoil into my pillow and Mags tuts soothingly.

"I have nothing. No reason to keep living. So when I heard about the Quarter Quell, I knew there was a one in two chance it would be me. And I wasn't ready to die their way. I wanted to die at home. I've spent my entire life here – except my time in the Games and the Victory Tour, of course. I love everything about it, and I couldn't think of a better way to show the Capitol I hate them and refuse to condone their sick, twisted sense of entertainment. And there you were. Running into the sea, as if we shared the same brain. Finnick wanted to help, but I've always been a better swimmer. He's good with a trident, but when it comes to agility…" She weighs out her hand like a scale, tipping it left to right. I muster a giggle – I like Mags a lot, and we share the same sense of humour.

"So, I dive in going after you, and it turns out you're a better swimmer than the lot of us! But then you had a nasty run-in with that urchin…" she winces and sighs, brushing my hair into a long fishtail braid – her fingers are so quick and nimble I didn't even notice.

"And here we are," she finishes. As I feel some of my senses returning, I exercise my stiff muscles as she holds my hand in hers.

"Annie, I totally understand what you wanted to do, but there are other ways to avoid terrible things." She's close to tears, and I force myself up and hug her tiny, frail body. I make a promise there and then – if she's picked at the Reaping, I'll volunteer. At least she'd be safe, and I'd spend my final days with Finnick – my mind crosses to Finnick again. I turn to Mags and look into her shallow grey eyes.

"Where's Finnick?"

She looks upset, and a pang of worry hits me like a bullet.

"He's getting ready for the Reaping. It's today, Annie, you were out of it for quite a while."

I'm numb. I can't even think. Today? How can that be possible? I can't have been asleep for three days, it's impossible. I fall back into the bed, stunned, as Mags tries to calm me down.

"I've laid out a dress for you – it was mine when I was your age." She cracks a reminiscent smile. "I wore it to my first Reaping. Brought me luck, my mother told me. Now come on, we've got half an hour to get ready and get down to the square." She kisses me on the head, and leaves me with the remains of the bombshell. I see the dress laid out on the dresser in the far corner of the room. It's a peppermint colour, with tiny diamonds sewn into the neckline at staggered angles. The whole thing has billions of tiny glittering glass shards sewn into it – the only district that can afford real glitter is District 1, and the Capitol, of course – to give it the appearance of shimmering. As I carefully slip it on over my shaking body, I see it hugs my curves, making me look skinnier than I've ever looked. As I become reacquainted with the girl in the glass, I begin to realise – maybe going back into the arena won't be so bad. I can show I'm not the insane coward I was five years ago. Prove that I can be more, and use my power of Victor for good.

I'll go back in to show I'm strong.

For Ryan.


	4. Chapter 4

The Square is like a ghost town compared to any other Reaping day. After all, there are only three people to reap. Anyone else who bothered to come are spectators, and I guess that around fifty per cent are fans of Finnick, as they scream at the very mention of his name. And yet, the Capitol still make their huge show about every little part of today; still ship out our district's escort, Aelia (this year her hair is sea green. The Capitol sure do have a teasingly sick sense of fashion), constructed the stage outside the spruced-up Justice Building and assembled our Peacekeepers in the centre of zoo-like animal pens to sign us in. Pah. Is this their idea of a joke? Herding us like cattle off to slaughter, in front of a live audience? Pathetic. I turn to Mags who is walking silently beside me and fumble for her spindly hand. She finds mine first and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

I walk nervously up to the army of Peacekeepers, and they part in a human corridor leading to a desk, where our head Peacekeeper, Cosetta, sits with the small device used to extract blood from our fingers to sign us in. Mags gives me a soft nudge and I walk cautiously towards Cosetta, all eyes fixated on me. A murmur of whispers runs through the crowd of Peacekeepers like a wildfire, shortly followed by sniggers and funny looks aimed in my direction. This is why I have to hear Aelia call me name today. To stop all of this.

Once me and Mags are signed in, I go looking for Finnick – I realise I haven't seen him since my suicide attempt. Scanning the crowd, my emerald eyes meet a pair of sapphire, and I know Finnick has been looking for me too. As we push through the crowd of spectators, I see Finnick's handsome face turning more and more desperate. Then I realise – Finnick will be going into the arena regardless. He's the only male Victor! Now I feel dizzy. The thought of losing Finnick was too much to bear. I begin to push harder, until the obstructions of the crowd are parted and there he is, standing in front of me, tears in his eyes. We stand there in silence for several seconds, no need for words. When I finally open my mouth to say that I'll miss him, I feel the warmth of his hands against my cheeks. Without warning, he pulls my face up and presses his lips to mine. This will sound cliché, but it's the truth – time stopped. Everything and everyone around us melted away, and the only thing that mattered to me was him. I wrapped my arms around his neck as our lips moved in perfect harmony. Is it true what they say? One small action, one tiny fraction of a moment can change the course of your entire life? My best friend, my mentor and guardian…am I falling in love with Finnick Odair?

As our lips separate, a small sigh emits from my lungs. As confusing as I was, the kiss was…indescribable. I then become aware of the crowd of girls surrounding us, sobbing and throwing me filthy looks. Finnick's fan club, I guess. I stare innocently up at Finnick, hoping my eyes would do the talking for me, as I don't think I'm capable of speech. I feel his hands caressing my hair, twisting it between his fingers as he begins to explain.

"I'm going today, Annie. Regardless of who I'm going with, I'll be leaving. And I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that I won't be coming back."

His eyes are misty now. I've never seen him like this; vulnerable, serious. He's always put a positive slant on anything, and made me laugh. I take his hands in mine as he composes himself.

"I've always loved you, Annie. From that morning five years ago that you were pulled into everything – into the Games, into the spotlight…into my life. I've watched you grow from this scared, quiet little girl that you were that day, and I've changed with you. When I mentored you, I gave you everything I had because I knew you had to survive, or I couldn't go on living." He was crying now, and I could feel tears starting to form in my eyes as well as his. We were standing here – everyone staring at us, about to be sent off to die, and he was pouring his heart out to me. I gave in as sobs racked my chest and he wiped away my tears.

"And now you know," he managed through his tight throat, "and I'm glad. Because now I don't have to die knowing that I've been lying to you. Now you know."

He looked down at the ground as his tears fell thick and fast. I couldn't bear to see him like this. I stretched out my arm towards his head, tilted his face towards mine and pulled him into me. Our lips met again, this time with the salty tinge of tears lingering. We stayed there until Peacekeepers ushered us away to our separate pens, and I found myself clinging to Finnick's muscular body tighter than ever, as if I'd die if I let go. But the truth is, I felt like I would.

Mags slowly pried us apart and pulled my by the hands, kicking and screaming, to our pen. It wasn't until we were there that I felt something inside of me snap. I fell to the hard stone cobbles of the square as sobs ripped through my ribcage, nothing but a heap of glittering green material and tears. I couldn't let Finnick leave me, not now. He'd made it impossible for him to leave me now, and I know I won't be able to sit alone in my house watching my best friend – no, he's more than that to me now – be killed right in front of me.

I'd already gone through it with Ryan.

Mags pulled me to my feet and hugged me into her shoulder, shushing me and trying to calm me down, and there we remained until Aelia's sickly sweet voice echo around the square.

"Welcome! Welcome, welcome!" she titters. I hate her – she's the one sending Finnick into that horrible place again, taking him away from me.

"The time has come, to select one courageous victor – one man, one woman – to compete in the seventy-fifth annual Hunger Games." The look on her face is gleeful, as if she enjoys doing this. It makes me sick at the very thought of getting entertainment from something as twisted as the Games.

"As usual, ladies first…"

My stomach drops. I'm going to vomit, right here in front of the entire population of District 4 (well, at least those who came to watch). Not to mention the cameras. Oh God.

I see Aelia remove her turquoise silk glove, and with an extravagant hand gesture swirls around the two silver envelopes inside the glass bowl. Her fingers wrap tightly around one, as she approaches the microphone. Here we go, this is it. I reach for Mags' hand as Aelia rips open the envelope and her lips part to speak two small words:

"Annie Cresta!"


	5. Chapter 5

Ice shoots through my veins like a speeding vehicle, freezing my feet to the stones of the square. Adrenaline seeps into my system and I remind myself to brush off the fear – I have to do this. I steel myself and begin to walk up to the platform, when a tiny squeak of a voice whispers beside me:

"I volunteer."

Mags.

No, there's no way I'm letting her do this for me. I rush back over to our pen and take her hands in mine. She's shaking, and I'd bet everything I had it isn't from cold.

"You're not doing this. You won't last two minutes in there, have you seen the victors from the other districts? They'd snap you in half!" I plead, but Mags remains still, staring into the space directly in front of her. She's trying to block me out, resist my desperation. All the words she said to me this morning come roaring into my ears, about how me and Finnick were all she had, about how everyone she'd loved and known were dead. But if she does this, everything she said would be a lie. She'd punish herself to die on the Capitol's screens than happy at home, her own way, so that I wouldn't have to. The truth was, with her and Finnick gone, I'd happily ask President Snow himself to put a bullet through my head in front of the entire population of Panem.

"Mags, please!" I'm screaming now. She had to listen. "I won't stand here and just let you do this! Don't you get it? I'd rather go in there than know that you died for me; too many people have died for me. Too many people lost their lives while I stand by and watch. I'm not adding you to that list, Mags, I care about you too much to let that happen, please!"

I can see I'm reaching her, as tears begin to form in her eyes, but she simply sighs and walks slowly up to the stage set up in front of the Justice Building. Two Peacekeepers step in front of me as I lunge forward, trying to pull Mags back. Anger flares up deep in my stomach, like a spark catching and growing to a bonfire. As I look around, searching for a route past the Peacekeepers, I see Finnick alone in his pen. He looks straight at me, and his eyes calm me down. I cautiously step back from the wall of white uniforms, and stand in the crowd surrounding his pen, as Aelia chirpily interviews Mags onstage. I muscle my way through the sobbing girls pushing and shoving to say goodbye to Finnick, until I lurch through and I'm standing directly next to him with only the fence separating us.

As Mags' interview comes to an end and Aelia struts to the boy's Reaping ball in her ridiculously decorated high heels (fish swimming around inside the heel!) I feel warm muscle grabbing my hand. I look down to see that the hand belongs to Finnick, and tears are running down his face. I lift his hand in mine and press it to my lips as Aelia calls his name from the envelope.

One last kiss.

One final act of love before my beautiful Finnick is sent to die.

He steps out of his pen shakily and staggers to the stage. I watch with baited breath as Aelia asks him questions about his last Games, what has happened since then and how he feels about the Quarter Quell. A lump the size of an apple swells in my throat, because all the time he's speaking to Aelia his eyes never leave mine. It's like he is staring directly into my soul, stripping any fake persona away and seeing the real Annie Cresta. The one who would go to the ends of the Earth to be sure he wouldn't die. If only she could.

As Aelia presents them to the crowd, fresh tears fill my eyes. I had to visit them before they left – I wasn't letting them leave until I said my goodbyes. I elbowed my way through the residents of 4, brushing off one strange look after the next, until I reach the door to the Justice Building. I'm greeted by a Peacekeeper, one I haven't seen before. 4 is a large district, so I'm not particularly startled by a fresh face here and there.

"Can I get through, please? I have to talk to the tributes," I try to sound innocent and forceful at the same time – it comes out as a loud whimper. Whoops.

"Sorry, Miss," he says, not taken aback by my attempt at intimidation in the slightest, "New regulations. Visitors not permitted."

I'm hoping my shock doesn't register on my face.

"B-but you don't understand, I l-"

"I'm sorry, No one is permitted inside."

This cannot be happening. I'd gone through enough today, I really didn't need this.

I nod respectfully at the Peacekeeper, and attempt to look casual as I walk away from the Justice Building. I see the Peacekeeper move an inch away from the door out of the corner of my eye, and wait until he is talking to a woman in another white uniform. As quick as my limbs allow, I whirl round and sprint to the door. I don't care about the rules, I have to see them.

I'm about one metre away from the door when the Peacekeeper notices me. I force my legs to move faster, but a flash of electricity zaps my leg and I feel myself falling, falling, falling, and then the world went black.


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, I'll make this quick because I hate notes at the beginning of a chapter as much as the next person! I want to thank you all for reading my story, as this is the first time I've ever shown anyone my writing, let alone the internet. One thing I've noticed in the reviews is the tense mistakes. The thing is, I'm writing this on my iPad and the autocorrect is changing some of the words. My apologies. I'll do my best to stop it and I really hope you enjoy chapter 6!**

I wake up on the dusty, water-deprived dirt ground outside the Justice Building. Judging by the sun's position, I'd been out for about two hours. Unlike the sea urchin sting, I regain movement and sense a lot quicker. When I look down to inspect my leg, I see a bandage wrapped from my upper thigh to just below my knee. A smell of burning lingers in the air. But what was it that caused the injury? As I dizzily get to my feet, I see that the back door of the Justice Building has changed since my last little 'visit'. A heavy chain greets me, wrapped around the handle, with a small ornate padlock holding the doors tightly closed. There was no way I was getting in there. I quickly survey my surroundings – the crowd of people had vanished and the Square was empty once more, except for a small group of children playing with a skipping rope. I hear their chant, and it brings back haunting memories:

Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree…

I remember learning about the song in history class many years ago; in the days when District 4 allowed public executions, the mothers would sing the song to their children as a warning of what would happen if they were bad. I've never really liked it, as the story the song tells is chilling, and to hear the children singing it not was rather eerie. Especially as I've lost the only two people in the world that I love. My family are gone, my friends think I'm insane - as well as everyone else in 4, for that matter. And the worst part is knowing that my one chance to show them that I'm not is gone, and with it the boy I love and the woman who acts like a mother to me.

Suddenly, a whole new meaning for 'The Hanging Tree' comes into my head – it describes mine and Finnick's story perfectly. An outcast trying to hold onto their love when in reality, they're worlds apart and there's nothing either of them can do about it. More than ever, it feels like I'm sitting alone on the sidelines, looking in on the horror and misery and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Wanting to try, but powerless. Even with my authority as Victor, there's nothing I can do that will keep Finnick here with me, alive and well, for as long as either of us is living. I shake my head, trying to banish the thoughts from my mind, as I walk over to the children with the rope. One of the smallest, a girl, spots me and stops skipping, before running over to a taller boy I presume is her brother and cowering into him.

"Don't worry," I say reassuringly, "I won't hurt you. I just wanted to say hello."

The girl's older brother steps out protectively in front of the rest of the group, trying to square up to me. I'm tall for my age, and I can see he's struggling.

"Okay, you've said it," I can tell he's trying to sound threatening. "Now go."

"Well…I also wanted to ask you if you knew what that song meant."

The boy's face is drawn into an angry frown, and I can tell he is getting frustrated with me.

"It's about what should happen to crazy people like you!" he screams at me, "Now leave us alone before you hurt any of my brothers and sisters!"

I'm truly shocked by what the boy says to me, and I see the little girl has tears in her eyes as she hides behind her brother's back. Is this really what children in 4 think of me? I have a horrible thought; my mother always used to warn me away from anyone she thought looked suspicious – could this be what other parents are telling their children about me? Do they think I would hurt their children, even kill them maybe? The thought is too much. I run from the square, my stomach doing an acrobatic routine of flips and knots. I'm going to be sick with disgust at the fact that my fellow citizens, my neighbours and maybe even some of my old friends have spread such horrible rumours about me. Children want me dead! I didn't realise until now just how dangerous people think I am, and I bet my grief at the Reaping didn't exactly put the odds in my favour. Pah. The irony. I'm a Victor and everyone hates me.

As I pass underneath the archway that signifies the end of the square and the start of the Victor's Village, I rush over to my cottage, shoot the door open, sprint to my bathroom and slam the door. Once the vomiting has subsided, I wipe the sweat from my forehead and go to my kitchen for a drink of water. This is far too much for one day. Sometimes I wish I'd never won, that I'd come out from behind that rock and asked Velvet (District 1 have some really stupid names) to kill me instead of Ryan. Everyone would've been happier that way – Ryan would have won and things would have been a lot less complicated than they are now. 4 would have a Victor to be proud of, not a rumoured murderer.

That's when the tears fall for what feels like the billionth time today. I can practically feel my heart breaking in my chest. In anger, I throw the glass to the floor and watch it shatter into a hundred glistening shards. I lean my back against the worktop and slide down to the floor, holding my head in my hands and sobbing uncontrollably. My mind whirs into action – what do I do when I feel my worst? My head snaps up. Talk to Finnick!

I begin to run again, and my bare feet hit the hard ground as I make a beeline for the small green house opposite mine. When I reach the door, I raise my fist to knock but the deafening silence freezes me where I stand.

And then I remember.

There's no one there.

And there may never be again.


	7. Chapter 7

I have to pull myself together. I mean, I've only really been in love with Finnick since this morning! Drying my tears, I pick myself up off the porch and try the door – it glides open and a warm draught greets me invitingly. Gently, I tiptoe into the hall, then remind myself I don't have to hide. There's no one here to hide from. I step into Finnick's world, the place he spent his final days of freedom. I see everything is exactly how he left it – everything and anything strewn carelessly about, never having a certain place or purpose. He never was good at keeping things in order. I smile – everything about the house just screams 'Finnick'. I walk into the living room where we joked about the Quarter Quell announcement just a few days earlier. It was amazing how much had changed since then – no, amazing isn't the word. Overwhelming? No, not that either. Horrifying. Yes, that seems to fit the situation perfectly.

I see the sun setting through the cottage's wall of windows – each cottage in 4's Village had a wall made entirely of glass, facing towards the coastline, so that we get the best views the district has to offer. It truly is breath-taking, watching the sea devour the sun, only to hurl in back into the sky several hours later. When I was younger, my mother used to tell me that the sun was scared of the moon, and it went into the sea to hide. The story used to make me giggle, and I believed it until I was about thirteen – I was a smart girl, but my mother was my role model, and I'd believe anything she told me. She seemed like the best person in the world when I was a child, and I was devastated when I arrived home after my Games to find gone. Every last one, and to this day I don't know where they are. It's a painful memory to surface, so I turn on the television to distract myself, and I'm greeted with Claudius Templesmith's grimace of a smile, and then I remember – the Capitol replays all the Reapings that have taken place today. I decide this is a good thing – I can see what Finnick is up against.

First up is 1 – to this day the quality and luxury of District 1 overwhelms me, and I was very much taken aback on the Victory Tour. I might have had more time to enjoy it if I wasn't getting so many filthy looks for surviving when both of their Tributes lie in an unmarked grave somewhere in the Capitol. Two blonde-haired, pampered twenty-somethings take the stage, Gloss and Cashmere (really?) take the stage. Both look strong and prepared, and I'm sure agility comes as no big issue for them. I hunt around quickly for a notepad and pen, and jot down notes about each district's Tributes. Next to Gloss and Cashmere, I write 'Threat'.

Next is 2, and a shiver runs down my spine as I see their female Tribute – 30 year old Enobaria. She won the 62nd Games, and I vividly remember her ripping out a boy's throat with her teeth. Eurgh. Definitely a threat.

Beetee and Wiress from 3 look intelligent and quirky, and I think Mags would like them. Next to their names, I jot the word 'Allie'. When they show my District, they show everything. Literally, EVERYTHING. Somehow, the camera crew spotted mine and Finnick's 'moment'.

The entire country of Panem watch as mine and Finnick's lips meet and he pours his heart out to me.

Our private, intimate moment is dead.

I turn the television off and slam the remote down in disgust. I don't care if it's customary viewing, the Capitol's stupid, prying eyes have ruined everything. There isn't a soul in Panem who doesn't know about my love for Finnick now, and that embarrasses me. I don't regret loving him, not one bit. I just regret the fact that the cameraman spotted us and felt it was morally right to document it.

I walk out of the room and see a light on somewhere upstairs. Is there someone here? A Peacekeeper waiting to arrest me for breaking and entering? I don't see where the breaking comes into it, but they'll probably find a way to convict me for it. I climb the creaking wood warily, wondering what waits for me at the top. A million horrors enter my head, each more unrealistic as the next. My head gets less and less logical as I near the light, only to discover Finnick's empty bedroom – the tidiest room in the house, with a made bed and fresh sheets, tulips sitting in a vase on the bedside table next to a small lilac envelope addressed to me-

Wait, what?

I slowly cross to the note, and open it with baited breath and shaking hands. The envelope is weighted, as if concealing something more than paper. Inside I find a letter, but I hunt around in the envelope to find nothing else. I slowly read through the note, my eyes becoming mistier with every word:

Dear Annie,

If you're reading this, I'm gone. I thought you might come here. You're easy to figure out, if only people bothered to brush off your reputation and get to know you. I've never understand why they won't – you're a beautiful, down-to-earth girl and you don't deserve the life you have. I've loved you since the moment I saw you, a mouse of a girl shaking with fear at the idea of going into this big, daunting unknown. To think, it was only five years ago! So much has changed since then, but not how I feel about you. I'll love you as long as I'm breathing, and I want you to promise me something

I pause as I climb into Finnick's bed – everything, from the pillows to the sheets, smells like him. And that's why I burrow deep into them now, and begin to read the rest of the letter. My eyes gain weight, and the letter drops beside me as my body goes limp and I surrender to sleep; the final thing I see is Finnick's rushed writing depicting the line:

I want you to be mine. Forever and always.


	8. Chapter 8

**Quick note (sorry) – I'm really sorry for not updating yesterday, I'm somewhat of a party animal and got stuck out 2pm-2am. Whoops. So, to make it up, I've wrote 2 chapters to catch up. Hope you enjoy it!**

**Also: *Disclaimer: As much as I wish I did, I do not own any of the rights to The Hunger Games or any of its characters. All rights reserved to Suzanne Collins, Lions Gate and Scholastic Press***

I wake up when the dull light of the overcast day reflects off the windows and into Finnick's room. It seems like the perfect day to stay right where I am and feel sorry for myself and what is happening around me, but I know that if I do that there's a small chance of me ever entering the real world again – staying here, until I shrivelled up and turned to dust. I don't see what's wrong with that. I don't have anything to live for, so I might as well. The true impact of Mags' words before the Reaping yesterday morning hit me like a bullet – she really was alone in the world. And now I face the same fate as her – living out the rest of my days in solitude, no one to love or love me in return. I want to cry for her, but I don't think I have any tears left in me.

I see the letter, hidden in the white sheets of the bed, and I re-read it. The last line haunts me as I play it over and over in my head – was Finnick proposing to me? What did it mean? I puzzle over the words as I drag myself down the creaking staircase and grab a mango from the kitchen. Suddenly, the weight in the envelope pops into my head, and I dash back to the bedroom to hunt around in the envelope yet again. Sure enough, lurking in a corner of the paper pocket, is a small silver chain. As I hold it up, a small charm drops out and clings to the chain, glistening in the grey light. On closer inspection, I see it is a small emerald – the exact same colour as my eyes – fixed onto the door of a locket. The door pops open and a picture of me and Finnick greets me, our faces alive with the light of happiness as we smile into the camera.

I remember exactly where the picture was taken – five years ago, on my Victory Tour. Since he was my mentor, Finnick had accompanied me to give me tips on how to present myself. My personality in the Games (the guise I used in interviews and parades) was shy, sweet, quiet and intelligent, so I had to stick to that during the Tour. We attended a party the night we arrived in the Capitol, and as usual Portia had gone all out with my dress – floor length, slight train that flowed behind me. The sea blue colour created the impression of a lapping wave that followed me around the floor of the ornate ballroom. The strapless neckline had tiny diamonds woven into it - lots around the top of the dress and slowly descending into scattered shimmers. I wore my hair in ringlets, styled in a fashionable pile on top of my head with small diamante pins. It was the most beautiful I'd ever felt, and I'd turned many heads that night. Finnick looked dapper in a classic tuxedo suit with his hair styled in his usual bedhead look. I was sat in a corner, thinking about the horrible things I'd gone through in the Games, when he caught sight of me and asked me to dance. The orchestra struck up my favourite song – back home, my mother used to sing me a song about the ocean to get me to sleep when I was a little girl, and they echoed the tune as we twirled around the floor. A Capitol photographer had cut in to ask for a picture, however we didn't pause – simply turned out faces to the camera so it could catch our beaming expressions. The figures in the picture stared at me now, their smiles seeming hollow and sparkling eyes dead. Next to the picture, in the opposite door of the locket, were the engraved words:

'Forever and always. F+A'

It all seemed meaningless now. We were separated, and yet the locket showed us at our happiest, while I'm sat here depressed. All the same, I'd feel like I was betraying Finnick and his memory if I didn't wear it, so I slip the chain around my neck until the emerald hangs on my chest. It's subtle and beautiful, but its beauty holds a darkness. A part of Finnick lives in the necklace, a part of a man who may soon be dead. I sigh, and prepare to face the first day without him.


	9. Chapter 9

I walk slowly back over to my cottage as small spits of rain begin to descend over me. I step into a long, fragrant shower as I wash the grime from the previous day off my skin – dust, grass stains, smeared all over my skin. I can't even imagine what I must have looked like to the passers-by in the square yesterday – the village crazy, walking around looking like she'd just escaped a dense forest full of muttations. Perhaps that accounted for the looks. Well, some of them. Given my reputation, I'd wager at least seventy per cent were just for me in general. I stand in the shower, letting the warm water flow over my head as I close my eyes to think. Is it so hard for people to open their minds and discard my reputation? I'm not a bad person, at least not all bad. Apart from abusing my power and having frequent emotional break downs, I'm pretty normal. I just wish someone would try and get to know me. Like Finnick did. That's what I need, a new Finnick. However, replacing him felt wrong. Even if he was facing imminent death, it'd be disrespectful to his memory. Besides, no one could replace him. Ever. Every now and again, I wish I could trade lives with the reflection I see in the mirror. The girl in the glass never failed to appear strong, confident and beautiful. The girl she belongs to is quite the opposite, and that annoys me.

With an exasperated sigh, I let my thoughts seep into the water and flow down the drain. I quickly wash and dry my black curls, throw on a baby blue petticoat dress and decide to take a long walk on the beach. Despite the weather, the beach is sheltered and littered with small caves built hard into the rocks surrounding it, so there's never an absence of shade and relief from the wet. As I head out of the door, I quickly grab my transparent raincoat and patch-work bag with everything I need tucked inside. I don't bother with shoes – there's something about seeing bare footprints in the sand that makes me feel safe, even if they are my own.

The drizzle of the early morning quickly intensifies to a merciless downpour, and I see people in the square rushing to find shelter from the storm. I pull down the hood of my coat and tilt my face to the sky, allowing the fat raindrops to burst on my cheeks, nose and eyelids. I loved the rain. I love the texture of the sand when it's wet and I love the bouncing waves when the drops hit them. I tuck myself away in a hollow rock face, listening to the drumming echoes as the rain hammers relentlessly at the roof of my cave. I open my bag and pull out a pen and a notepad, reviewing my notes from the Reapings. The one that truly stuck in my head was Enobaria – throat rip girl. I really was worried for Finnick, even though he's nineteen and is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. I feel like one of his groupies, or the girls in the crowd that day at the Reaping. Was that really just yesterday? It certainly didn't feel like it, with everything that had happened since then. My entire world had been turned upside down and shaken up, possibly beyond repair. I turn over a new page of the notepad and begin to sketch. My talent that I chose to pursue after my Games was painting. Mostly dark, chilling pictures of a damns bursting and releasing a tidal wave of blood instead of water, or a head missing its body. Now I prefer beauty, and my first instinct is to draw the sea. Hard, black lines at the top of my page for the lapping, uneasy waves in a tangled mess, followed by the piercing eyes of the mangy stray cat patrolling the beach for washed up salmon, and then the seagulls in flight, fleeing the monsoon. I add curved lines as the smoother rocks close to the square, and small features that make up the rest of the site around me. As my pen leaves the paper, I see what my hand has really created. The position of the birds, the piercing eyes, the messy waves…

I'd drawn Finnick.

His face stared back at me for several minutes, and in those minutes my mind whirred with thought. I couldn't carry on like this. It isn't healthy. My mental state is fragile enough as it is, without the torturing visions of my lost love. Sleeping in his bed, the locket, it couldn't be helping me. It had only been a day since I last saw him, how bad would my yearning get after a week? A month? Perhaps even the rest of my life? I wouldn't stand it.

I picked up my pen from the cold, stone floor and press it to my paper forcefully. In several seconds I have written in huge, black, bold letters across Finnick's staring face:

**FORGET.**

I hurriedly stuff the stationary back into my bag and hastily make my way back to my cottage. I don't look up to the rain anymore, only down. That way my tears will immediately be absorbed by the sand instead of trickling down my face, reminding me of just how weak I was when it came to my emotions. Although, as I keep my neck firmly pushed towards the ground I see the footprints. My footprints, that I made just an hour before. The same ones that used to make me feel safe, protected and not so alone in the world. But they do the opposite for me now. I feel as alone as I've ever been as I stare at the imprints in the sand.

They only remind me of the boy who used to make the set that should be next to them.


	10. Chapter 10

Days pass, and I work on getting Finnick out of my mind. I spend most of my time in the local library, researching the Tributes participating in the Quarter Quell. I bring myself to watch the Reapings to get a good feel of the competition, and most importantly who Fi-Mags will be competing against, but only from District 5 onwards. If they showed the kiss, I don't even want to know what else they showed (i.e. my emotional breakdown and desperate attempt to break into the Justice Building). Certain Victors stand out more than others, such as Johanna Mason from 7. I remember watching her Games, rooting for what seemed like the underdog, as I usually do. In the Opening Ceremonies she seemed quiet, shying away from the cameras in her garish bark jumpsuit. During her interview she stuttered and seemed reluctant to answer Caesar's questions. But the minute she stepped into the Arena, she turned into a mindless death trap. I remember vividly that her weapon of choice was a crossbow, and she killed three boys with her bare hands just to pry it from the burning golden sides of the Cornucopia. Her Arena was a desert, not unlike my own, however our similarities. She looked strong and prepared when she marched forward to the stage at her Reaping, although I caught a flash of fear on her face when 7's flashy escort Perseus called her name from the envelope.

Others that imprint in my brain are the star-crossed lovers from District 12, Katniss and Peeta. I was enthralled with their Games last year – the love they had for each other was overwhelming, and when I see him volunteer to take his mentor's place – Haymitch, I think – at 12's Reaping it only reminded me of what I was going to do for Mags. I class them as allies, as I think Mags will like their enthusiasm.

Time rolls on, and I watch every video of the Tributes' Games I can find, jotting down anything of interest on my notepad. It slowly turns into a Tribute guide, with everything anyone could need to know on the Victors entering the Arena this year. Eventually, the night of the Opening Ceremonies arrives, and I decide to sketch out pictures of each Tribute so that I can identify them easily. I grab a bowl of popped corn kernels and my sketchpad, collapsed on my sofa in my favourite too-big sweater and jeans and turned on my sleek black television. I am greeted with Caesar's glittering grin, alongside a plump red man who has to stretch to be seen by the tall camera.

"Welcome, one and all, to what is sure to be one of the most exciting Games ever recorded in Panem's long and brutal history!" Caesar's peppermint green hair, suit and eyebrows clash terribly with the short man's tomato skin, and I have to stifle a laugh as I see a stagehand appear on screen, carrying a stool for him.

"Well Caesar," he puffs as he steadies himself on the stagehand, "I have to agree with you. I'm very excited to see what the Victors have to offer, but I must admit I'm rather proud of the Arena design. Considering it's my first year as Gamemaker, I personally think it'll be one to remember!"

I tune out of the small talk on the screen. A new Gamemaker? What happened to Seneca Crane? I rather liked him, and I know Snow did too. What could he have done that was brutal enough to cost him his job? The entire Games were dedicated to brutality so it- wait! The Nightlock! It shoots back to me – the finale of last year's Games, the muttations devouring the cocky boy from 1, both tributes from District 12 threatening to kill themselves rather than one kill the other. They showed up the Capitol big time, and I bet that Snow didn't like it. Someone's head had to roll to make his point – that's the way his authority works. His sick, twisted idea of authority.

As Caesar's guests come and go like clockwork, I try to focus on the small tunnel in the background of the interviews where the chariots would soon pour out of. I try to imagine Mags and Finnick – her more than him, of course – backstage in their costumes. I wonder if some dim-witted Capitol stylist has them dressed as cod or nets. Eurgh. I remember my Opening Ceremonies – my stylist had me in a cascading white gown, frothing all over, to create the illusion that I was submerged in sea foam. Shells were woven into my hair, and I wore strappy sandals laced with pearls. Considering the Tributes from 5 were dressed a lightning bolts, I got off easy. It really didn't look that bad, and I hope the two of them had a sane dresser.

When Caesar had finally finished rambling on about how excited he was, the gleaming chariots pulled by regal white horses erupted from the gloomy tunnel. First, Gloss and Cashmere from 1 waving to the crowd and smirking as the trickling jewels that adorned their head-to-toe jumpsuits shone in the lamplight of the Capitol. Districts 2 and 3 aren't so lucky, as giant rocks and robots pass by in their chariots. I crane my neck to try and get a better glimpse of what will emerge from the tunnel next. I suddenly see them, positioned in 4's pristine silver chariot, and I take a sharp intake of breath as the two of them come into view.


	11. Chapter 11

The Finnick and Mags before me weren't the two familiar faces I'd known and loved. When they emerge from the shadows of the underpass, I am greeted with Finnick's same tanned skin and ruffled hair, but as the rest of his body materializes from the shadows of the tunnel, there isn't much else to see except exposed muscle and…well, exposed everything. Has 4's stylist put him on the chariot completely naked? Is this some sort of sick enticement for female sponsors? My stomach performs several flips as I pray they haven't done the same for Mags. However, as the cameras pull in on Finnick's face, I see small gold ropes lashing their way along his bare chest. A net! I see it now – a cluster of golden string knotting itself at Finnick's crotch. Thank God. As much as I loved him, I'm seventeen. I didn't need to be seeing that sort of stuff at my age. Once his whole figure is bathed in the light of the flaming torches illuminating the Capitol's streets, the silhouette next to him enters the glow. Mags. Oh, please don't have her in ropes, too! I hide my head in my hands as the frail old woman on the chariot is shown to the camera, and my heart stops.

She looks stunning.

Her thin, wispy, grey locks are pulled back into a straight ponytail. I see her prep team have done something with her hair to thicken it out, as I see it aches to be released from the plated gold band keeping it in place. Thankfully, they haven't used any wrinkle remover, and Mags' smiling face remains the same as she drinks in the applause with Finnick by her side. It is only until the camera angle switches that I notice her dress – a shining white at the neckline, descending into flowing cascades of gold material that end in two triangles.

She's a mermaid.

And she's never looked lovelier.

I relax back into my lounger, and as I watch them gaze in awe at the masses of Capitol frea-citizens, my brain suddenly produces the mental image of my riding the chariot instead of Mags. My long, unruly curls straight and radiant, with a green dress as opposed to gold. A small smile plays on my lips as I imagine Finnick reaching down and taking my hand as we wave to the crowd together, side by side, us against the world.

Perhaps I've been too hasty to lose faith in him. I mean, love is all about overcoming everything to be with the one person in the world you know would go to the ends of the Earth to make you happy. I know I'd do that for Finnick if ever he asked me to, so why aren't I doing that for him? I ran at the first sight of danger, instead of clinging on and never leaving his side. What was I doing, that day at the Justice Building? I was going to tell him I loved him and I would be with him through anything. So why aren't I? Trying to forget him, sitting at home in a teary mess, wishing there was some way to change what was happening, when all along it was sitting there in front of me. I have to support him. There's tons of Capitol representatives in the District, perhaps I could try and get him sponsors! Boost his chances of coming home to me…

I shoot up onto my feet, the immediate thought hitting me like a speeding Capitol train.

Get him sponsors…improve his chances of winning…make sure he comes home!

I had my plan. As soon as dawn broke tomorrow morning, I'd be down in the square raising money for Finnick and Mags. Many people in 4 admired the two of them, so I don't think it'd be such a challenge. I'd have Finnick's fan girls, and I know that some of the shop clerks liked Mags because she was such a humble Victor.

Then another realisation hits me, this time the impact of it hurts like a tracker jacker sting.

Who would give me money?

After all, it'd be me representing them. I'd be the one behind the table in the square taking donations. Who'd approach me to donate? They'd probably think I would bite them, or start spouting insane slurs into their face. Perhaps if they knew it was for Mags and Finnick, and they wouldn't have to approach me to ask. I hurry out of the room and to my art room – I have a special room in my cottage for my painting supplies, such as canvases, poster paper, paints, that kind of thing – and grab a large sheet of poster paper, my watercolours and a paintbrush. I set up the supplies in front of the television screen so I can watch as I create the banner, and by the time Chaff and Seeder from 11 appear dressed as sheaves of corn, my sign is completed. Its pale blue writing with ornate curls and decorative Hunger Games logo reads:

_PLEASE SUPPORT FINNICK AND MAGS AS THEY COMPETE FOR VICTORY IN THE QUARTER QUELL_

_HELP THEIR CHANCES_

_MAKE A DIFFERENCE_

_SUPPORT YOUR DISTRICT_

_DONATE NOW!_

_ALL DONATIONS WELCOME – BIG OR SMALL, WE'LL TAKE IT ALL_

I decide to go pick up some shells from the beach for decoration, but as I am about to exit the room, something on the television screen catches my eye. Has a chariot caught on fire? I dive back to my sofa just in time to see Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark glowing and pulsating, their clinging bodysuits generating the illusion of fiery embers – no, coal – as they glare away from the cameras, their faces unforgiving as the crowd murmurs words of 'I'm scared' or 'They look frightfully beautiful'. I hope Finnick makes them allies – they look like good fighters and strong partners to have.

I don't stay for Snow's speech, and by the time 12's chariot arrives at the Capitol's centre I'm halfway down the beach, my bare feet spraying sand out from underneath my heels as they hit the uneven dunes. The waves behave like barking dogs, playing around my feet and tickling my ankles as they break against my legs. I swim out in my sweater and jeans as deep as I dare, dunk myself underwater and begin the search for sea shells. I grew up in water (not literally, but my father owned a fishing boat so I often went with him and swam in the surrounding sea) so the salt water doesn't sting my eyes as I plummet gracefully to the ocean floor. I can hold my breath for exceedingly long amounts of time, so I know I don't have to worry about air. My suicide attempt was different, though – I wanted to die, so I didn't even attempt to hold my breath. I think I may have sucked in some of the salt water through my nostrils, as they've been burning a lot since that night.

Once I'm sure I have enough shells to attract attention to the poster, I drag my dripping body out of the water and traipse back to my cottage to attach them to the banner. I step back to appreciate my work, and I can't help feeling something click inside, as if something has resurrected.

And rapidly, I know what this new feeling is, this burning candle that feels ready to engulf me at any moment.

Hope.


	12. Chapter 12

Dull sunlight casts shadows off the cobbles of the square as I begin to set up my 'donation station' before the morning crowd descended. I'd ventured back to my old apartment deep in the backstreets of 4, where me and my family had lived before I was reaped, to pick up a large wooden table, several long poles and a bucket for the money. Everything was caked in dust and grime, and the musty smell of rotting fish still lingered from when my father would bring them home for food. I couldn't stay there long, however – I'd feel ready to cry rivers after the a hundred painful memories flashed back to me in an instant whirlwind of remorse and I'd grabbed what I needed and ran.

The sun just starts to come into view, and I climb atop the sturdy table to fix my banner to the poles, so that people clearly know what the cause is, and they're not forced to come up to the mad girl for any substantial period of time. There. With the poster firmly secured, I take a step back to the edge of the table to try and climb down slowly. I knew something was wrong with my positioning, because I overstep the distance, teeter on the edge of the table before tumbling to the hard stones of the square. A warm sensation fills my right elbow, and hot red blood leaks freely onto the floor around me as I attempt to get to my feet. My arm aches terribly, and I struggle to put any weight on it whatsoever – I'm left floundering like an air-drowned cod for around five minutes, before giving up and succumbing to fatigue and pain. The sun has almost fully risen, and the square will soon be full of strangers, flocking around my stand for all the wrong reasons – to see me suffer. Brilliant.

At that moment, a small flicker of movement plays in the corner of my eye. I convince myself I hit my head when I fell, as it is far too early for anyone apart from the shopkeepers to be here; none of them really like me, as I 'scare off the customers'. But wait – there it is again! I shuffle my body around with my left arm to see a boy, about my age, sitting outside the patisserie about twenty metres away. He looks at me with a sympathetic smile, and I try to shoot him a threatening glance – I don't want his sympathy. I've had more than my fair share of pity, and I'm tired of all the empty gestures.

With a sigh, I see the boy haul himself up from the stones and stroll over in my direction. He has a self-assured swagger that I really don't like. The last thing I need right now is a cocky pretty boy.

"Need some help?" he asks with a smile, offering me his hand.

I do. However much I wish I didn't, I do. With a reluctant sigh, I clutch his hand with my good arm and allow him to pull me to my feet.

"You've still got some…" he trails off as he extends his cotton shirt sleeve out to my bleeding elbow, and I yank it away causing a new stab of pain.

"I don't want your help."

He raises an eyebrow at my icy tone, then shrugs and stuffs his hands inside his jean pockets.

"Fair enough, but while I'm here, I'd like to donate to the cause."

…okay, maybe he isn't so bad. He still can't seem to shake his sarcastic aura, but if he's going to help Finnick and Mags he's a half-decent person in my eyes.

It's just the other half that makes me suspicious.

"Well, are you taking my money or not?"

I grab the bucket from the grubby table and hold it out to him.

"Yes, please."

He whips out a wallet from one of his pockets and paws through it before retrieving a note with a flourish.

"Here," he smiles, before tossing the money into the bucket. His voice swiftly changes to mimic Aelia's Capitol accent, "and may the odds be ever in their favour," he bows low and winks. For a minute, his dark hair looks blonde and his olive eyes flash blue, as he mimics Finnick on the day of the Quarter Quell announcement all those weeks ago. His voice echoes in my head:

"_Good morning, m'lady. How may I be of service?"_

I brush off the vision, but I fear it may have registered on my face – the boy's eyebrows dip in a low frown as I try to regain my composure.

"Don't give me that look!"

He seems taken aback. Good.

"…sorry…" he murmurs, and something in his voice makes me feel bad about snapping at him. With a sigh, I put the bucket back on the table.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bark at you. I'm just a bit…on edge at the moment."

He smiles at me – not sarcastically or in a cocky way, but sort of a sad smile.

"I know how it is…"

What? How could he POSSIBLY pretend he knows what I'm going through?

"…I lost the girl I love in the 72nd Games."

Oh. Well, now I feel like a horrible human being.

"I-I'm sorry. Really, I am. What's your name?"

"Alex, yours?" he asks, as he holds out a hand for me to shake. I take it – something tells me I'll benefit from having friends at a time like this.

"Annie. Annie Cresta." I smile. It feels nice to have a friend here, not hundreds of miles away from me as the Capitol parades them around like pigs for slaughter

"Listen, I have to go to the patisserie and pick up some pastry for my mother. I really hope you get the money you need to help your friends." The sincerity plays in his eyes yet again, and right there and then I decide to put my trust in the cocky boy before me.

"Thanks. It looks like more people are arriving now, so I have hope."

A musical laugh flows from his lips, and an unwilling giggle escapes my throat. I cover it up with a cough, and he quickly stops, his face now sullen and serious. "Good. That's what everyone needs sometimes. Bye."

He waves at me as a crowd begins to gather around the large fountain in the middle of the square. I sigh. A friend. A random stranger came up to me and tried to be my friend. Why can't more people be like him?

My eyes follow Alex until his figure melts into the crowd, and I return behind the table to take the donations of the collecting horde of people willing to donate to save my family's lives. Because if I have a friend in Alex, then that's what Mags and Finnick are to me now.

Family.

And they're so much better than anything I've ever had.


	13. Chapter 13

***AUTHOR'S NOTE***

**I really don't know how to start this…**

**Hello, dear reader! (If anyone's reading, that is..) I guess I have a lot of explaining to do about why I haven't updated in over a year. I had some serious problems with my old laptop, and it meant I couldn't use my word processing software. After getting caught up in school and my hobbies and God knows what else, I never had enough time to try and fix the problem and eventually I forgot about my writing.**

**UNTIL TODAY.**

**Yes, I come armed with a new laptop, better writing skills (hopefully) and deadly dedication in the hope of finally finishing this story, if only you'll forgive me and read on. My most sincere apologies to you, dear reader, and I hope you will stick with Sidelines until the story's done.**

I fall through the door of my cottage late that night, hauling the bucket behind me. Glittering silver coins cascade from its rim as I drag it through to the sitting room and fling myself down on my favourite overstuffed armchair. There had to be enough in here to help Mags and Finnick somehow, even if it was only a loaf of bread or a vial of medicine. My elbow aches where I cut it in the square this morning, but I ignore it. With the promise of sponsors for my family and a possible new friend, my spirits are too high to be brought down by an insignificant scrape. I fumble for the television remote on the small table to my right, and the screen opposite me flashes to life. Caesar Flickerman's painted face, lilac this year, grins animatedly at me as he describes in detail about the 'positively electric' atmosphere out in the Capitol in the wake of last night's Opening Ceremonies.

"What is it with those people?" I mutter under my breath as I tip the contents of the bucket onto the honey-coloured wooden floor. A waterfall of bronze, silver and even green paper spills out into a pool on the planks before me. I'd never expected this much to come from my campaigning, but I'd had a constant queue of people waiting by my stall all day – I'd even had to stay an extra two hours to deal with everyone there. It really is overwhelming how an entire District can come together and support their own in their time of need, even when the one representing them was something of an outcast. I feel kind of touched that the people of District 4 could put aside their opinion of me, whatever it is, and help Finnick and Mags. I smile to myself and push a stray curl of black hair behind my ear as I begin counting the donations, Caesar's voice booming around my living room all the while.

I finally finish counting the donations long after the Capitol broadcast has ended, and I supress tears as I reach the final total – there's enough here to buy both Finnick and Mags high-quality weapons, a barrel of food each, and medicine to last them around one month in the arena for any range of illnesses and injuries with money to spare. I laugh out loud through my tears – they'll be alright. They can make it home.

There's hope for them.

Alex's words echo around in my head – _"That's what everyone needs sometimes."_

Hope. That's the one thing I have to keep clinging to if I want to hold onto whatever it is I have left without my family here with me.

I stand up, legs aching from sitting down for so long and gather up the money back into the bucket. I'll take it to the Justice Building first thing in the morning, I think to myself, and then they'll send it off to the Capitol with a list of things I want Mags and Finnick to have with them in the arena. I put the bucket next to the television, in a small corner of my living room, and it isn't until then that I pay any attention to the programme showing on screen.

It's a re-run of Hunger Games highlights.

From the 70th Games.

My Games.

I stare blankly at the television until I finally get my brain into gear and walk slowly back to fall onto the sofa behind me. Currently the interviews are being shown, and I see a younger version of myself sitting on a stool behind the current interviewee. I'm watching the tribute, a boy from District 3 who can't have been older than 14, talk to a pink Caesar with a nervous shake to his voice. He talks about his family, about his single mother and new-born sister he leaves behind, and how he'll miss his home. He knows he won't be coming back, and I watch myself sigh sadly behind the boy as Caesar shakes his hand and he returns to his seat.

I know what's coming next.

I see myself rise slowly from my stool, and I smile as I remember what it felt like to wear the dress I see before me. My stylist, Titania, had gushed about my narrow waist and flowing hair, saying I was 'every stylist's dream client'. My floor-length, strapless sky-blue dress clung to my body before flaring out halfway down my shins in white and green netting, making it look like sea foam was swirling around my ankles. My hair was piled in a curled heap atop my head with small pearls planted in the locks, with my eyelids painted lightly with blue and my lashes flaring out to at least double their regular length. With coral lipstick adding a contrast of colour, I shone in the spotlight as the Capitol audience screamed their appreciation.

How far I've come.

_How far I've fallen._

Past Annie half-smiles at Caesar, and he passes a comment on how 'stunningly radiant' she looks. She quietly thanks him, and the interview begins. I remember my angle was shy, and I play to it well – never looking at the audience, staying quiet and answering the questions in as little detail as possible. When Past Annie finally leaves the stool, I feel the colour drain from my face.

If my interview's over, that means…

I lunge for the television remote on the table near the other wall, but I'm not quick enough. I hear Flickerman's laughter as he introduces the next tribute and I slip on the throw rug decorating the floor before my hand can reach the remote. I try to turn away from the screen but I'm too late – a flash of dark hair, the wink of green eyes, and the smile that lit up the already-blinding stage.

Ryan.

I slam my hand onto the table beside the armchair and grab the remote. The screen goes black as soon as I hit the power button, and without a second thought I crumble to the floor in tears. Loud, painful sobs tear through me as I thump the floor with my fists.

_It's your fault he's dead. You deserve this. You deserve to be alone and uncared for. You knew this would happen. Come on, Annie, don't delude yourself. You had this coming to you from the second that sword touched his neck. If you'd have used those god-damn blow darts you wouldn't be in this mess. You're right to hate yourself._

_You're nothing._

The voice in the back of my head is my own, taunting and bitter. Saying everything I'm too afraid to admit. I cry out before the sobs pull me back under again, into the deep embrace of my own tortured mind, and I lie on my back in my living room sobbing until I fall into the nightmares that riddle my sleep.

I was wrong.

I'm hopeless.


End file.
